


Every Bed Is Narrow

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Of course I'm not bloody well all right," Doyle groused, jerking his head away. He warmed to his theme as he got his breath back. "You pushed me out of bed. I've bruised my bum - I could have dislocated my prick."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Bed Is Narrow

Bodie crouched beside the bitterly complaining figure now adorning his carpet after an abrupt departure from their bed. "Are you all right?" Worried, his hand traced Doyle's profile without touching it.

"Of course I'm not bloody well all right," Doyle groused, jerking his head away. He warmed to his theme as he got his breath back. "You pushed me out of bed. I've bruised my bum - I could have dislocated my prick."

Bodie's mouth gave an infinitesimal quiver but his control held. All outward gravity, he touched Doyle's forehead with his thumb before he began to rub it in a soothing circle.

"I bet I've got carpet burns, too," Doyle added with less force, seduced by the concern being lavished on him.

His blue gaze intent, Bodie rumbled the occasional encouragement, his concentration on Doyle total.

All but purring as capable hands stroked him, Doyle leant into the caresses, revelling in the loving attention he was receiving. Then he looked up and saw his companion's smug expression.

"You rotten sod," he exclaimed in an aggravated tone, visibly pulling free of the spell Bodie was casting. "It isn't fair. You keep humouring me and I fall for it every time." His protest lacked conviction, his voice muffled because he had begun to nuzzle the edge of Bodie's jaw, freshly shaved in his honour.

"Of course I do. And the reason I do is because it has the desired effect. I get a real kick out of watching you lose your marbles just because of me."

"'Just'?" mocked Doyle, licking Bodie's shoulder.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. Though I still think it's shameless the way you get me going. But you didn't have to push me out of bed first," Doyle added with a remembered sense of grievance.

"Then let's get back into bed and we'll try again."

Doyle gave him a quizzical look. "That's the end of the sympathy, is it?"

"Wasn't I doing it right?"

Getting to his feet, Doyle paused to give the question due consideration. His smile was a private thing.

"Ray?" Bodie gave Doyle's slightly pink rump a comforting rub, and if his hand lingered longer than was strictly necessary Doyle saw no reason to complain. He slung an arm around Bodie's shoulders.

"While you over-played your hand, it worked perfectly. I must be an easy touch."

"You are." Bodie recognised the danger implicit in that assurance a fraction too late, but Doyle just gave a resigned grin.

"Thanks a bundle. The thing is, while it's a novelty to be humoured like this, what I don't know is why you're doing it."

Under his partner's unblinking scrutiny, Bodie began to look shifty - never a difficult feat.

"Powers of invention failed you, have they?" enquired Doyle with sympathy. "Tell you what, why don't you simply opt for the truth?"

"Dangerous precedent, that."

"I wouldn't hold it against you."

"More than once a week."

"Come on, what's this all about?"

"I just felt like humouring you. After all, it is our first holiday together."

"No it's not."

"As lovers." Bodie sounded as if his teeth were gritted.

"Oh, right." Doyle frowned. "It can't be our first holiday. We've been shacked up together for nearly eleven months."

"You know how long it's been?"

"Why shouldn't I?" returned Doyle, on the attack.

"No reason," said Bodie hastily. "It's just that you're not a great one for remembering dates."

"I forgot my own birthday as well as yours," said Doyle defensively.

"I wasn't thinking of that. Anyway, I told you it didn't matter."

"You tell me a lot of things. That doesn't mean I believe all of them. Get back into bed," Doyle added in the goaded tone of one tried beyond his powers of endurance. He gave Bodie what was intended to be a push in the right direction. Braced, Bodie didn't budge an inch.

"It's a bit late for you to play hard to get," Doyle pointed out, as he tried to pretend he hadn't been exerting his full strength.

"I thought it might have novelty value."

"Just be your predictable self."

"Now he's saying I'm boring," Bodie mourned to the room at large. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he gave the firm mattress a disparaging poke. "While I know we were asking for trouble, mucking around on the edge of the bed the way we were, maybe we should think about getting a bigger bed."

"Do they come any bigger - without needing a mortgage for one of those custom made jobs, I mean?"

Bodie's expansive gesture made it clear money was no object. "You can't have too much bed. I'm a growing lad. I need room to express myself."

Doyle peered Bodie's groin, shaking his head with sorrow. "No growth that I can spot."

There was silence for a while.

"How's that?" Bodie inquired with a flamboyant gesture.

Doyle peered down. "This it, is it?"

"Failing memory, too. Is this better?"

Doyle made the tactical error of pretending to think about it.

 

oOo

 

A couple of days into their leave, they drove down to Sussex to meet the Honda enthusiast willing to sell Doyle the spare parts he had been after. The heavy traffic out of London reminded them that it was a Saturday and Bodie resigned himself to a slow crawl after Doyle had confiscated the siren.

Their transaction completed, Bodie finally persuaded his partner that the cherished motorbike parts would be quite safe in the boot of the car while they had lunch. By mutual consent they decided to linger in the thatched prettiness of Greater Peover. Basking in the July sunshine in the pub garden, they forgave the appalling beer because of the superb food. Bodie knew it must be good when Doyle, like Oliver, went to ask for more.

Uncomfortably full after their over-indulgence, they explored the village, afraid that if they sat down they might not be able to move again. For a Saturday afternoon, the village proved to be oddly deserted.

"Unless they've all gone up to London for the day, of course," said Bodie, twirling a buttercup between his fingers after establishing that both he and Doyle liked butter.

"Imagine living somewhere that's got a village green," mused Doyle as they paused to admire the duck pond. The smell, combined with the unpleasant green scum covering the surface, made them move on with dispatch.

"You were saying?" encouraged Bodie, brushing aside fronds of weeping willow.

"Maybe I'll stick to London diesel," conceded Doyle as they headed down-wind. "Hang on. What's that music? It can't be a hurdy-gurdy, can it?"

"I don't see why not. It sounds like it's coming from that lane."

Bodie led the way up the gentle incline. The road had a neglected air about it, the surface coming away in numerous places. The scent of melting tar mingled with that of the sun-baked grasses which proliferated along the verges of the narrow track. Well-spaced driveways, half-smothered by vegetation, offered hints of houses, none of them aimed at the modern executive market.

"The music's coming from the vicarage," Doyle sounded faintly shocked.

Bodie gave him an amused look. "Music hasn't been banned, as far as I know. Churches are having a job attracting punters these days. Maybe music pulls them in. Not that I'd call what's playing now music," he added in a critical tone.

They paused outside the white fencing surrounding the sprawling vicarage, which must have been built to accommodate a Victorian sized family - and sufficient servants to run the place - to study the hand-painted notice.

"A Summer Fayre." Bodie's tone was disparaging. "Knitted tea cosies, tatty paperbacks and home-made cakes."

"Well, that explains your interest."

"What accounts for yours?"

"I'm just humouring you." Doyle fished in his pockets for change for the entrance fee.

"Lying sod. Still, it's worth giving it the once over in case we're missing out on an alternative life style."

Doyle was busy scanning the poorly sketched plan stencilled on the back of the smudgy programme.

"The vicarage either has a bloody big garden or they've got over ambitious. They've got donkey rides and coconut shies, a rifle range, Punch and Judy, Tombola and Pets' Corner - otherwise known as how quickly can the cat next door eat your hamster."

"Tea tent, raffles, book stalls and guess the weight of the pig. Spoilt for choice, really. Will you look at that," Bodie added, a happy beam lighting his face. Having read the notice on his own account, he read it out loud on Doyle's behalf.

Busy watching an obese jenny amble across the sun-burnt grass, Doyle wasn't listening to a word Bodie said. His attention was attracted when Bodie announced his intention of buying a book of raffle tickets.

"At a pound a ticket?" blurted out Doyle.

The ticket seller looked down her high-bridged nose to glare at him.

Returning the look with cold-eyed interest, Doyle changed tack and gave her his sweetest smile.

Bodie watched with resignation as the woman visibly melted around the edges, to the point where she was virtually simpering while she fumbled change and a book of tickets as her co-ordination seeped away. Bodie gently relieved her of her pen and wrote his name and CI5's address on each ticket; he winced when he realised what this was going to cost him. Having completed the transaction, he dragged Doyle away before he could do any more damage.

"That was vicious," Bodie scolded him. "Could have given the poor old girl a heart attack."

"What was?" asked Doyle, turning his wistful gaze from the donkey, having conceded he would be too heavy for her in the moral if not literal sense.

"Go and have a donkey ride," said Bodie indulgently, ignoring the fact that every one else in the sticky, undulating queue was under ten years old.

"OK, don't," he said, after a four minute lecture on the abuse of donkeys. Why Doyle should feel such a fierce partisanship for an animal he could have had nothing to do with was a mystery that time might solve; Bodie had no intention of asking - not while the Fayre beckoned.

Making a beeline for the ice-cream van, Bodie concluded his purchase and headed for the tombola. Doyle twitched the book of raffle tickets from his lax grip.

"Why did you waste thirty pounds on raffle tickets when - ? Oh, the church restoration fund. I should have guessed. It makes you wonder if there's a church left that doesn't need rebuilding. Though that doesn't explain why you were in such a hurry to give away all your hard-earned cash. What's the prize?"

"That's what makes it all worth while," said Bodie with enthusiasm. "It seems the local squire - who's paying for all the side-shows - owns a posh furniture store off Sloane Square. You know the sort of thing."

"No," said Doyle unhelpfully, dodging Bodie's retaliation with ease. "What's he offering then - some poncy lampshade? Or are you thinking of taking up interior decorating?"

"You can scoff all you want, mate. This is a prize worth having. It's a bed. Nine feet wide and nine feet long. Price three thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds. Ours free - when my ticket comes up."

"The eternal optimist, that's you," said Doyle, eyeing him with tolerance. "What's so special about this bed - apart from the price?"

"I wish you'd listen to me sometimes. It's only the most luxurious bed on the market - and it's big enough for some interesting physical jerks."

"It's the partner that makes them interesting. You've already got a bed. So have I, come to that. The only reason we fell out of ours the other day is because we were pissing around on the edge of the mattress."

"My very point. In the Super Size Diplomat you'd be hard pressed to find the edge."

"No, you wouldn't. It'd be in the same place as any other bed. Just further away from the centre. Though I suppose it would give new meaning to 'crawling out of bed'."

Having been wandering without purpose between the various stalls, they paused beside one supplying knitted goods to eye, with appalled fascination, a waistcoat crocheted in squares of luminous lime green, orange and purple.

"Who d'you suppose would wear that?" murmured Bodie into Doyle's curls, avoiding the hopeful gaze of the assistant.

Doyle gave the matter due consideration as they headed for the fortune teller's booth.

"Someone with no choice. How much money have we got to spend?"

"Not a lot. I picked your pocket to help pay for the raffle tickets."

"Cheers."

His wallet containing only two pounds, Doyle rummaged in various pockets before counting his findings into Bodie's hands.

"We've got eight pounds fifty-six pence to spend. Four pounds twenty-six each."

"Twenty-eight," corrected Bodie with patience. "Haven't you noticed how your finances have improved since I started doing your expenses?"

Arrested, Doyle paused. "I thought that was because you were fiddling them."

"Not since Cowley caught me at it that time. No, it's just that you can't add up. It wouldn't be so bad, but it's always to your disadvantage - and I bet Cowley's never told you."

"You'd be right. OK. Twenty-eight pence. Don't spend it all on food."

"We've only just had lunch," Bodie reminded him in a righteous tone.

Undeceived, Doyle outstared him with ease.

"Not all of it," Bodie promised, before his head rose. "Is that hot dogs I can smell?"

 

They returned to London weighted down with spoils, if unable to account for how they had acquired many of them.

Doyle clasped a coconut, a huge, horribly cute soft toy lion, who was coloured an improbable shade of peach, two Smurfs, a bottle of Worcester sauce, another of ketchup, two plant pots trailing something green that would undoubtedly die within a week, a lurid crocheted waistcoat, a bag of toffee and two jars of chutney (which neither of them ate).

Bodie retained the chocolate and walnut cake (minus a whorl of icing), a punnet of strawberries, two jars of home-made gooseberry jam, another coconut, a massive boy's annual, a stack of Classic Bike magazines and a musty smelling Victorian melodrama entitled ‘Misunderstood’. The few passages Bodie had read aloud while Doyle drove them home had almost caused Doyle to choke on the home-made toffee he was sucking so noisily. This hitherto unsuspected passion for toffee was a weakness Bodie was only just learning to exploit.

"Home sweet home," announced Doyle, his voice indistinct because of the size of the wedge of toffee which was ballooning one cheek. Depositing items on the kitchen table, the coconut rolled off, narrowly missing his foot.

Bodie set down his book.

"Don't even think of opening that. If you ever subject me to any more of that rubbish I'll stick the book where the sun don't shine," Doyle promised. His portion of toffee was so enormous that he only just stopped himself from dribbling by giving an inelegant slurp.

Bodie decided love needed to be deaf as well as blind.

"Are you sure you've got a big enough mouthful?" He began to put away their purchases, most of which went in or beside the waste bin, depending on their size.

Pausing in his labours, Bodie stared at one item in puzzlement. "I'm sure I would have remembered buying this waistcoat." He gave Doyle an accusing glare.

"It was only seventy-five pee. The women behind the stall was the one who made it. She saw me looking at it and thought I liked it. What was I supposed to say?" demanded Doyle, with defensive belligerence.

Bodie gave him a forgiving pat. "There's nothing like supporting the church restoration fund for giving you a sense of well-being."

"Speaking of which, where was it?"

"The centre of your well-being?" asked Bodie, rubbing the front of Doyle's green moleskins.

"Gerroff. I want a cup of tea before you have your wicked way with me. Though save that thought for later. The church. I thought there was something missing. I saw the vicarage, and I saw the graveyard, but I'm buggered if I spotted the church," added Doyle more audibly, having disposed of the bulk of his mouthful of toffee by this time.

"Be hard to miss."

"OK, where was it?"

"Maybe that's why there's a restoration fund," suggested Bodie, getting out plates, forks and a knife with which to cut the cake while he waited for the kettle to boil.

"Tell me you're not going to eat that cake?" begged Doyle.

"What, lie to you?"

"Don't overplay it," Doyle advised him. "Anyone else would be too embarrassed to eat anything else after what you've tucked away today. Home-made steak and kidney pie, mashed potato, apple pie, ice-cream, toffee apple, candy floss, a hot-dog - correction, two hot-dogs - cucumber sandwiches, scones, fruitcake."

"There's no need to go on. Besides, I threw away most of the toffee apple."

"Only when you found you were sharing it with a maggot. I wonder which end you ate," Doyle mused.

Unperturbed, Bodie drew the cake toward him and spared Doyle a pitying look. "It takes more than a maggot to turn my stomach, mate. Out in Africa - "

Doyle snored theatrically and got up to make the tea. Reaching over Bodie's shoulder, he stole half a walnut from the decoration on top of the cake, then idly picked up the book of raffle tickets.

"Carry on stealing food from my mouth and I won't let you share my Super Size Diplomat," threatened Bodie, an expression of bliss on his face as he licked chocolate icing from his fork. "Best bed on the market, that is."

"The largest," Doyle corrected absently, his attention given to the small print he was reading. "You could get lost in a bed this big."

"Then we'll have the fun of finding each other again."

"There is that. Where are we going to get sheets and bedding big enough to fit a bed nine foot square?"

"Give up," replied Bodie helpfully.

"Or a washing machine to wash them in. And who's going to iron them? And make up the bed. You'd need arms like an orang-utan's to cope."

"I must get you a book on positive thinking."

"Do you know when the draw for this is?" continued Doyle

Bodie twitched. "Not exactly."

"You should try reading the small print some time. Try nine months, three weeks and four days away."

Licking his fork clean, Bodie decided he'd better not risk a second slice of cake just yet.

"Are you trying to tell me we've got no hope of winning that bed?"

"Not a prayer. The tickets aren't just in aid of the church restoration fund. There are about twenty other charities listed here - from all over the south-east."

"Maybe I should just buy one of those beds," mused Bodie, who was only listening to one word in ten.

Doyle set down his mug of tea. "You're serious, aren't you."

"It'd be fun to play in, wouldn't it."

"Well, yeah, it would but - "

"But me no buts. We deserve it. Give me time and I'll even think of a convincing reason why."

"You haven't thought things through."

Bodie gave a lecherous grin. "You wanna bet?"

"Five quid," responded Doyle instantly.

Bodie's smile wavered. With fifty pence as Doyle's normal stake things were looking black for his team.

"You're on," he forced himself to say.

"I take it you're happy to explain to Cowley why you want a bed that big."

"What happened to 'us'?" inquired Bodie.

"I thought of having to tell Cowley. That's a little task you can see to," added Doyle kindly.

"I've no intention of discussing my sex life with Cowley," said Bodie with great firmness.

"You won't have any option, mate. Not with a bed nine foot square."

"Eh?"

Doyle gave him a tolerant look. "Have another piece of cake, it may get your brain working. How are you planning to get a bed that big up into this flat - or any of the others we've ever had over the years? About the only places with doors big enough to take a bed that size are hotels or stately home."

"Or hospitals, museums, art galleries."

The piece of icing Doyle flicked at him hit Bodie on the cheek. Wiping it off, Bodie licked his finger and gave Doyle a speculative look.

"Fancy a quickie?"

"Then we can take our time." Doyle picked up the cake.

Taking it from him, Bodie set it back on the table. "You are not smearing chocolate butter icing all over me. Quite apart from the fact I won't get my fair share while you're licking it off, neither of us likes hair in our food."

"It's not so much the hair in the food as the hair that gets caught between your teeth," conceded Doyle, busy with the buttons of Bodie's shirt.

"You fancy a romp in the kitchen?"

"On the floor," Doyle confirmed. "If the earth's going to move, I want to be sure it's under my feet in the first place. And if you want a new bed, we'll get one. But not a Super Size Diplomat. Unless you want to explain it to Cowley."

"Coward," accused Bodie, his voice muffled because his mouth was travelling down Doyle. "Uninventive, too."

"Uninventive?" echoed Doyle.

Determined to prove them wrong, he ended up with groin strain and the problem of explaining how he'd got it to an unamused Cowley.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Written 8th January 1995
> 
> First appeared in the circuit zine _Old Friends, Too_
> 
> Reprinted in _HG Collected 1_


End file.
